“He did not tell you the truth, of course; he pitied you too much; but it was hard for him to give up his attitude of brother and guardian to you and make you his wife to satisfy a carping world. It would have pleased him better if you had married Cameron Bentley. But the Bentleys were too proud; they informed him frankly that their son could never address you on that subject until he brought proof of your parentage and refuted the slander against you. Already it was working in people’s minds. Miss Faris and many others sent regrets for your coming-out ball, because they did not choose to associate with you. The suspicion that had caused Norman de Vere’s wife to leave him had taken root in the minds of others, too. To save himself he would not have made the sacrifice he did; but to save you, feeling that you had a claim on his pity, he married you. But he never loved you--never--save as one loves a pretty child or a favorite sister. All the love he was capable of he lavished on me. When I left him, I believe his heart died.” She stopped with a sort of hysteric gasp; but the silent, statue-like form before her made no sign, although every bitter word had sunk into her heart. Camille could not tell how deeply she had hurt her victim, so quiet was Thea under the rain of bitter words, but she went on angrily, scathingly: “Perhaps you do not believe me. Very well, ask others. Ask Mrs. Bentley if she ever heard a word of Norman’s marrying you until immediately after the embarrassing affair of her son. Ask your mother-in-law the same. Ask Norman himself. Why, if he ever had a thought of courting any one after my supposed death, it was Diana Bentley, who is much more suitable to him than a girl like you, young enough to be his daughter.” “While you, madame,” muttered the unsuspected listener at the door, “are almost old enough to be his mother.” Camille remembered it but too well, and the sting of her deadly hate went all the deeper for that. How dared the girl yonder be so young, so happy, filling her old place in Norman’s heart, the mother of his beautiful child, while she, growing old ungracefully, painted, made up by art, was remembered only with scorn and loathing. “Well, I have come to take my revenge at last,” she went on. “I knew when he married you, but I also knew he did not love you. I waited my time to strike. I thought he might learn to love you a little, especially if you bore him a child. Perhaps he did, men are such fools. So now I can wound him worse by the child’s illegitimacy than by your dishonor.” How gloatingly the words rolled off the painted lips, how exultantly the hazel eyes flashed! But Thea did not look at her, although her heart quailed before the horror of what she had heard. “My God, can this horrible thing be true?” she asked herself, in dumb agony; and the heavy eyes fixed on the child’s sleeping face seemed to see in fancy on the smooth white brow the dark brand of a terrible dishonor.